


Slow & Steady

by seren_mercury



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Penelope - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:59:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9653078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seren_mercury/pseuds/seren_mercury
Summary: Fate makes Lydia a deal, her lost love can’t be brought back from the dead, but he can live again. The question is, will they still find each other. (AKA a collection of lives they never lived…sort of…Well, not exactly.)First Up: The One Where Lydia is Penelope and Stiles wears glasses





	

**Author's Note:**

> so to start me eternal thanks and devotion goes out to my steadfast and fabulous beta [@0broden](http://0broden.tumblr.com/) who lived through sixteen versions of this fic and was eternally patient, kind and kickass, as well as my unequivocally amazing and crazy talented artist [@hollvndroden](http://hollvndroden.tumblr.com/) who let me change everything and show up late. to all the incredible people behind [@stydiamonth](http://stydiamonth.tumblr.com/), without whom this wouldn't have been so wonderfully organized and beautifully executed, including (not at all lastly) [@songof-light](http://songof-light.tumblr.com/) who handmade the title card below that i in no way deserve
> 
> there are other parts of this, including a zombie apocalypse au and a thief vs fbi agent au, that i'll put up later. I wanted one that really mostly focused on their interactions for the Big Bang and this one fit that bill more than the others at the moment. Plus they're getting crazy long, lol. So here were go.... i hope you enjoy this very bizarre Penelope AU...
> 
> [gifset](http://hollvndroden.tumblr.com/post/157151064096) provided by [@hollvndroden](http://hollvndroden.tumblr.com/)

  **Prologue** : Wake Up

 

**-1**

 

She’s cradling his head in her lap as he takes his last breaths. She falls over him sobbing, and just as suddenly angry. She curses them all, everyone and everything that led them here.

 

A cool hand lights on her shoulder but she does not move.

 

“Fix it.” She whispers hoarsely.

 

“I cannot.”

 

Lydia turns and her eyes flash dangerously. “Yes, you can.” Her finger tighten on the lapels of his jacket. “Bring him back to me.” Her breath hitches. “I need him. I can’t-”

 

“I am a Fate, I cannot reverse Death.” But there is something lingering in the tone and Lydia catches it immediately, there’s a flaw in the phrasing, something held back.

 

“But you can do something.” It isn’t a question.

 

The gaze is searching and Lydia meets it squarely. “It would not be easy.”

 

“I don’t care.” Lydia asserts.

 

“You can say as much before but-” Her look silences any further warning. “I cannot reverse Death.” Lydia opens her mouth to protest. “But,” A sigh. “But I can give you a chance.”

 

“I’ll take it.”

 

“You know not what you ask child.”

 

“It’s worth it.”

 

“I can say nothing of Death.” The air is suddenly sharp with electricity, every hair standing on end in anticipation of a lightning strike. “But I give you a chance. To find him again.” Lydia frowns in confusion. “You will not remember this place. You will not remember this life. It may be worse than-”

 

“But he’ll be alive.”

 

“Yes.” The hand on her shoulder falls away. “You will know nothing of this bargain, but it will be such. If you are certain, if you have faith, you must find him on your own.”

 

“But I won’t remember him.” Lydia feels suspicion take hold. Her grandmother has long warned her of dealing with the Fates and Furies. They are not to be trifled with, they are not to be trusted. Then her eyes fall to his prone form, all frenetic energy lost, finally quiet after all his noise. Whatever it is, however it is, if he is alive it’s worth it.

 

“You will not be given any quarter, any aid, you must trust your soul capable of finding his in each lifetime on its own.” Lydia swallows. “If this you can do, if you prove your connection transcends not only death, but life, I can return him to you.”

 

“Yes.” Lydia breaths before the final word is even finished.

 

“Child-”

 

“Yes.” Lydia declares firmly. She feels a constriction in her chest, the air warms and stills like the calm before a storm, and then there is only light.

 

**1**

**Chapter One:** Open Your Eyes

Family lore said it happened like this…

Seven generations ago there was a second son, and seven generations ago he fell in love with a kitchen maid. Persuaded of his devotion Amelia, said kitchen maid, anticipated her forthcoming wedding vows with her beloved Samuel. It was not long before young Amelia was with child and less young Samuel was confronted with the unrealized expectations of his family station. Samuel was a Martin, and he was not going to be marrying a kitchen maid. He denounced his lady and shunned her. In her grief Amelia fell ill and neither she nor the child survived the ordeal.

It’s here that details get…hazy. Some say it was her mother, some an aunt, others still the family cook. Either way there was a witch and a curse, on that everyone was fairly clear. The next daughter born to a Martin would suffer as Amelia had done, she would know what it was to be unloved by those that should love her most, and until one of her own (one of the upper class) claimed her despite this until death did they part she would be doomed to bear the face of her forefather Samuel. A pig.

All in all the metaphor and literality was justifiably poetic.

However as Samuel and his siblings took spouses and bore children they only welcomed sons into the world. This new generation of Martin boys fathered all sons, who fathered all sons, who fathered all sons and so on until Grace Elizabeth Martin, born September 22nd 1978. When Grace was born with perfectly formed features, if a bit large of a nose, the family curse was finally scoffed at properly and almost forgotten.

Except Grace Elizabeth wasn’t actually a Martin, not in anything but name, in point of fact she was a Reyes. Grace’s mother Abigail was not as careful as she had thought and her assignations with her husband’s chauffeur overlapped with the affections shared with her husband. As such she couldn’t be sure who had truly fathered the girl, but it hardly mattered. A Martin she was in name and so a Martin daughter she was indeed. Until…

Another decade and change passed and Natalie Martin was thrilled to find herself with child, a daughter, so the sonogram promised. The last direct descendent of Samuel Martin, and if anyone had been inclined to dig out a portrait the very spitting image of his ancestor, Richard was equally ecstatic to welcome his first-born.

It was a deceptively easy pregnancy. Natalie’s morning sickness lasted for exactly eight minutes starting at 8:12 every day and was over complete by the start of the second trimester. She grew with subtle steadiness that was neither taxing nor untoward. Her cravings were not singular, disturbing, or difficult to assay. In point of fact had she not found it impossible to see her toes when standing she rightly might not have remembered she was pregnant most days.

And so, on a beautiful spring morning, Natalie put down the toast she had been eating and announced to Richard that her water had broken. They made it to the hospital in roughly fifteen minutes and thirty-seven minutes later Lydia Lorraine Martin was born at eight pounds four ounces and proclaimed healthy and hale. Except…well, there was a curse, and though it took seven generations the first Martin daughter after Amelia’s ill-fated offspring was finally born, and so she bore the consequences of her forefather, the face of a pig.

It should be said that as curses go this was a fairly light display. Seven generations is long for a curse to linger. If it had been fulfilled in Samuel’s own children, or even his children’s children, it would have likely been a much stronger and more pronounced showing. In the case of Lydia it amounted to little more than a snout instead of a nose, extended ears that bent over themselves, and naught else. In point of fact she was still a pretty sort of babe. She had a wide full mouth, notably large eyes, and dimples to boot.

When Natalie first held her daughter she wept. Not for the unfortunate deformities she bore, but for the life she now knew her daughter would never enjoy. All the plans made for her were for naught in the face of…well, her face. Natalie and Richard could hardly subject her to the cruelty of an uninformed and unenlightened society. She would have to be protected, to be spared the ridicule, shame, and abuse of the world at large until a cure, or a remedy, could be found.

After medical intervention was ruled out within the first six months of her young life the full details of the family curse were accepted. Lydia would have to be promised, ‘til death did they part, to a member of their own set, and until that day it was decided she would be hidden from the world at large.

This was a decision argued about with frequency and passion by the young couple but in the end Richard would not be swayed. His argument was trenched in being unwilling to subject the child to the derision of the world outside of their door. If this was more a reflection of his own viewpoint and unwillingness to bear the shame of such a daughter, it is to the reader to decide. If Natalie was weak enough to relent, despite her misgivings of the mandate, it is for her to regret.

And so young Lydia grew.

Her mother, an educator by trade and by nature, did her best to ensure her daughter wanted for nothing to stimulate her active mind. It was quickly apparent that the girl was of exceptional intelligence and before long there were topics where Natalie was woefully out of her depth to teach. In time she sought tutors that were willing to meet through a two-way mirror, as was Richard’s stipulation, adhering to the rumor that the young Miss Martin had an exceedingly delicate constitution and was unable to leave her room or be exposed to the general public, for fear of her health.

At first Lydia hardly understood what the wide world held that she missed. She had her mother and her math and a fantastic Internet connection. Surely she wanted for nothing. However she did lack companionship, and she found that very late at night she would almost ache for something, she knew not what, but it settled in her chest and though she could not name it it remained.

She would read about it, about friendship, and she would wonder what it was like. What it was like to have someone to share her thoughts with, someone to laugh with, someone that made her laugh. She loved her mother dearly, but she knew it wasn’t the same. Her books told her as much, and eventually film and television confirmed her suspicions.

She would read about Anne Shirley and Diana Barry and wonder, what was it like to have someone to share so much, to grow next to and near. (She did not entertain the notion of anything romantic as her father’s position on the matter made it clear to her she could never expect that with the way she looked.) But what was it like to have friends as loyal as Ron and Hermione, as close as Elizabeth Bennet and Charlotte Lucas, as devoted as Leslie Knope and Ann Perkins.  

But it was not to be, she had her mother, and her tutors, and her someday. Some day was all her father ever spoke of, some day she would be normal. Some day she would be as beautiful as her mother. Some day she would better. Some day she could be loved. Some day.

The years passed and when she turned eighteen her father approached them with his plan. Nearly two decades in the making. Lydia and her mother balked. Eventually he won the former over by threatening access to her mathematics correspondents, the latter he convinced of the necessity in order for her to lead a full life. So it was decided, so he decided.

He hired a renowned matchmaker, known for her ruthless efficiency and perfect rate of success, Marin Morrell was retained for the most complicated task of her career. It was her that suggested the confidentiality clause, standard in her more trying matches, it was her that suggested the dowry. There were plenty of families with estates that could use the funds to restore their ancestral wealth.

At first Lydia had been keen to know and be known, keen to please and be pleased. However it wasn’t long into the process before her optimism soured. Over the years she shifted from eager to compliant and then from accepting to irritated.

Some were simply not that bright, and she didn’t intend to hold that against them, however when it became clear that they didn’t enjoy or relish her surpassing them in intelligence and education so fully, distaste was a natural consequence.

If they weren’t insipid, or so easily intimidated, they were boring. They had no opinions or would cater to her own too readily. They would wave her off of any real debate, insist in agreeing to disagree instead of discussing it properly, just tell her she was wrong and would know better had she lived in the world, or change their alignment to exactly match hers. It was infuriating and tedious.

Occasionally they were neither stupid nor compliant, neither aggressive nor condescending. Three times over the next six years she screwed up her courage to meet them face-to-face. The first one fainted, twice, the second ran from the house actually screaming and the last…the last had been the worst.

Jackson Whittemore had been visiting her for over four months, he said that he knew he could love her, he promised there was nothing they couldn’t overcome together. And the worst part was she believed him. It had seemed so perfect, he was smart, he was good-looking, he was rich twice over so he wasn’t even here for her money, sometimes he displayed a quiet and wry sense of humor. She thought maybe she loved him. Was convinced at the time that she did.

So that day, a Tuesday, she opened the door behind the bookcase into the sitting room her suitors and tutors used and braced herself for his reaction. She thought perhaps there would be surprise, some revulsion to be sure, but he said he understood, it was all temporary after all, once they married she would be better. Some day.

He didn’t faint, he didn’t scream, he didn’t point.

He laughed.

He laughed like he hadn’t ever found anything funnier. He laughed while tears filled her eyes. He laughed while she covered her hideous, impossible-to-be-loved-literally-cursed-face. He kept laughing as she ran from the room back up the staircase, slamming the secret door behind her and throwing herself onto her bed. She would never forget the sound.

She heard him as he left, how could they expect him, The Jackson Whittemore, to seriously consider such a freak for a bride. They surely couldn’t have been serious when they contacted him and his parents. It was ridiculous, a farce. He laughed all the way to his car.

After that her mother made her father promise no more, not now anyway. The deferment only lasted three months. After that Lydia weeded them out in droves. She invited five to ten at a time, waited for them to get comfortable, and then shocked them all at once. It was faster that way. Her father was always livid, asking her how she could expect them to accept her condition if she didn’t even bother to let them get to know her first.

“But my face is what matters isn’t it?” She countered as she buttered her toast tartly.

He just frowned over his coffee mug and opened the Wall Street Journal in front of him, shielding him from her sharp gaze.

It went on like that for a few more weeks, until one day the impossible happened…One of them stayed…

\---

Two years prior Stiles would not have been caught even dead at a place like that, but that was two years ago and he wasn’t that kid anymore so there he was after all.

Theo was drunk, which was not exactly new, and Stiles wanted to get out of there before he said the wrong thing to the wrong people and they decided to take it out on Stiles’s face.

“Where are your keys?” Stiles asked as he propped Theo in an empty chair. Theirs was not a friendship of anything but necessity, it wasn’t even a friendship, it was more like a begrudging acceptance of one another’s existence in the same space at the same time.

Theo slumped onto the bar and shrugged. Stiles sighed and started digging through the pockets of the jacket he hoped was Theo’s, it took a few tries but eventually he found his quarry. At that point Theo stood quickly, swayed, and then informed Stiles of his intent to go to the bathroom before they left. Uninterested in the outcome of that excursion Stiles sank into the empty bar seat to wait.

He was immediately aware that he was being watched. He cast his eyes around the room to look for the culprit. He didn’t recognize either man, one about his height or taller, sort of dangerous looking and darker in coloring, the other was a couple of inches shorter with preppy good looks and a face that just begged to be punched. They both clearly were well off, but while that was only clear because of the watch and shoes on the first every piece of the second’s wardrobe was designed to intimate money.

Stiles bristled; nothing good could come from this…He dropped Theo’s jacket onto the chair next to him, hoping to signal it was taken. He fidgeted with his glasses and squared his shoulders. Where the hell was Theo?

“Are you Raeken?” The first one asked, crossing his arms over his chest as he spoke.

“Who’s asking?” Stiles shot back, he was going to wind up bruised that night and once again it was going to be Theo’s fault.

“My name’s Derek Hale.” The first informed him. He jutted a thumb to his companion. “Jackson Whittemore.”

“Cool.” Stiles retorted mockingly as he gave them a look that made it clear this information meant nothing to him.

“We have a business proposition for you.” The second one, Whittemore, said in a voice that proved him every ounce the dickhead Stiles had assumed him to be from across the room.

“Do you?”

\---

Why they wanted a picture of the girl wasn’t clear. What was obvious is that neither could be trusted and the girl had to be warned, after he figured out their angle. Whatever they were planning, whatever their motivation, it wasn’t good. So Stiles had listened, never contradicted any incorrect assumptions they may have held and agreed to meet them the next day at ten in a zip code that had more money than most small countries.

They tried to get him a tie, try being the operative word; he stuck with his flannel button down and t-shirt. Before long he was ushered behind a glaring iron fence into a huge house with a group of about ten other guys around his age, all clearly moneyed. A fierce woman greeted them in the foyer with a stack of clipboards, an NDA, and a pen.

Once all the forms had been signed in triplicate by each of them they were brought into a sitting room that hosted a small entertainer’s piano, two walls of built-in bookshelves, a few ornate couches and a huge mirror above an empty fireplace.

It wasn’t that he intended to be distracted, however he had pretty much been born to be distracted, so when he noticed that the dimensions of the room didn’t make sense with the hallway they’d just walked through he dropped to one knee to push against the carpet with a hand. There was a noise above him and one of the other guys bumped into him. His head hit the back of the couch and his glasses dropped to the floor.

Cursing his inclination to diversion (and his limited vision) he dropped down lower to reach under the couch for the mislaid lenses. There was the sound of a door opening above him just as felt his fingers graze one of the arms and a quick stampede followed. By the time he had his glasses in hand and slid them back on his face and stood Stiles faced an empty room.

His, now properly sighted, eyes swept over the scene and he frowned. “Uh…hello?” He spun around and looked for a sign of any other person. What the hell?

\---

Her father would be furious. She didn’t care. No one was ever going to stay, no one was ever going to be able to accept her as she was, no one was…

“Uh…hello?” Lydia started at the sound of a voice, almost tripping on her way up the hidden stairs. She rushed to the top and so to the two-way mirror that met the edge of the floor of her room and sat above the mantle of the fireplace on the other side.

His back was to her, she couldn’t be sure she had seen him, but obviously he must have seen her right? He had seen her and he had…stayed? She sat on the floor next to the glass, tucking her heels against her skirt and pursed her lips. Why would he stay? No one had stayed before…

She pressed the intercom. “Did you…did you see?” She asked tentatively.

He whirled around with a small amount of frantic energy, having to right his glasses after he did so. He was of a decent height she supposed; she didn’t have much frame for reference. She understood she was short relatively, very short it seemed. He was taller than Jackson at least, which pleased her for some reason. He was brunette, hair longer on the top than the sides, he was…well he wasn’t unattractive. So why had he stayed?

“Did I see what?” He looked around for the source of her voice. His eyes settled on the mirror and his head tilted. He strode forward, stepping onto and over an ottoman and to stand in front of the mantle. He placed a hand on the glass, fingers spayed, and frowned. His other hand ran to the edge of the frame, knocking along the wall and then rapping once on the mirror itself, causing Lydia to start.

His eyes settled directly in front of him, where Lydia sat on the other side. Unsure why she reached forward and placed her own hand as a reflection of his on her side of the glass. His palm easily eclipsed her own, his digits longer and slender. “You didn’t see…” She whispered, forgetting that the intercom was still functional.

“No probably not.” He said with a laugh and tapped a finger to his glasses. “These are kind of necessary for that, I sort of dropped them under your couch.” He pulled his palm from the mirror and Lydia followed suit with surprising reluctance. “You’re in check by the way.”

“What?”

He pointed to the board in the far corner of the room. “You’re black right?” He continued without waiting for a reply. “You’re two moves from check.”

Lydia stood and put both hands against the mirror as she craned to see the board. “No I’m not.” She replied indignantly.

He chuckled and she pursed her lips in frustration. “Yes, you are…” He walked away towards to board. “Come out and see you’ve got-”

“I can’t.” She interjected shortly.

He turned back around to face her, “You can’t?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why?”

“How did you know I was playing as black, I could have been white.”

He shrugged, carefully picking up the board and bringing it back to the mantle. “Fifty-fifty shot.”

“Liar.”

The edges of his mouth curled in an almost smile. “You tell me yours I’ll tell you mine.” She waited as he placed the chessboard on the thick fireplace mantle in a curve wide enough to accommodate it.

“You’d leave too.” She replied quietly. His head was bent over the game so when he looked back to the mirror, to her, it was over the rim of his glasses. His eyes flicked rapidly as if searching for something, and it took her a long moment to remember he couldn’t see her, though it’d be hard-pressed to guess as much from his actions. Unconsciously she smoothed the delicate braid across the band of her skull and adjusted the collar of her blouse.

“I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t.” He turned back to the board. “White’s clearly an older player, their side of the game is more patient…less…aggressive.” He added with a smile. He pointed to a piece at the center of the board. “And you’re two moves from check.”

Lydia pulled herself from staring at him without reservation to attend to the game. She frowned. “You’re right.”

“Well you could sound a little less surprised.” He scoffed.

“What’s your name?”

“My friends call me Stiles.”

“So we’re friends now?” She tried to keep the hope from her voice because why should she care, she shouldn’t.

He studied the game in front of him. “We will be once I beat you at chess.”

“I’m Lydia.” She told him, shifting closer to the mirror, arguing to herself that it was so she’d have a better view of the board.

“Okay, Lydia, black or white?”

\---

He met them around the block a few hours later. There was disappointment at his failure. To which he informed them that whatever reveal they expected would have to wait. He liked Jackson Whittemore even less, and he still didn’t trust Derek Hale as far as he could throw him. Which, judging from the cut of the guy’s too-tight t-shirt wouldn’t be especially far.

“How hard is to take a picture?” Jackson sneered. Stiles rolled his eyes.

“You’re welcome to try yourself.” Jackass. “Why the hell do you want a picture of this girl anyway?” Stiles watched for some indication of intent in the reptilian eyes of the shorter young man.

“I’m not paying you to ask questions.” Jackson moved to poke him in the chest, “I’m paying you to-”

Stiles caught the offending hand before it reached him. “You’re going to want to back off before I make you back off Whittemore.” He threw Jackson’s hand back at him.

Hale stepped forward and put distance between the other two. “Alright, everyone calm down.” He turned towards Stiles. “Can you do it or not?”

Stiles shifted his attention back to Derek. “Sure.” He rolled his shoulders. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” He paused. “If you tell me what the hell this about.”

Derek and Jackson shared a look. “All you need to know,” Hale was the one to continue. “Is that the girl in there is the story of the century, and we need proof to tell it.”

“No,” Stiles crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m definitely going to need more than that.”

\---

He came back the next day, and the one after, and the next after that. They talked about books then music, movies and television, he asked her to explain the proofs she was working on, and avoided most questions about his life in turn. Three weeks after his first visit she started to think maybe he wouldn’t run. She had started to see what had been wrong with her interactions with Jackson when in comparison to hers with Stiles.

_“I did play a sport in high school.” He told her while he fiddled with the baseball in his hand. “Not well though.” He added with a laugh._

_“Which one?” She asked._

_Stiles stopped tossing the ball and looked to the mirror with a half-smile. “Guess.” He commanded._

_“Baseball?” She tried, but at his incredulous look she sighed. “Well you said it’s the best game to watch live so-”_

_“Nope, not baseball, try again.”_

_“I know.” She flipped onto her stomach on her side of the mirror. “You grew up in Northern California right?” He nodded. “You said it wasn’t baseball, you’re too short for basketball,”_

_“Thanks.” He said dryly, but the corners of his mouth were turned up._

_“So no basketball.” She tapped a finger to her chin, “You said you ice skate, but not especially well,”_

_“It’s good to know I’ve been putting my best foot forward with you.” Stiles said with a wry laugh._

_“Lacrosse.” She decided._

_Stiles again stopped his catch and release of the baseball. “You think so huh?”_

_“Yes,” Lydia said proudly. “You played lacrosse.”_

_“Guess again.”_

Jackson’s sense of humor was usually cutting, mean, and always directed at others. Stiles was dry, sarcastic, and equally self-deprecating and sardonic. Jackson made it clear he didn’t need nor want her approval, he could anger quickly and harshly. Stiles often drove her up a wall, arguing her into and out of a thousand different opinions, but in the end he always made her laugh. He never seemed bothered when she bested him in an argument, a game of strategy, in knowledge or skill, if anything he seemed…pleased.

_“So this…Riemann Hypothesis.” He paused. “Explain the trivial versus non-trivial zeros thing again.”_

_Lydia sighed as if it was some great inconvenience but the grin on her face was almost painful._

She found herself happy to prove herself, prove she was every ounce the genius her mother had always ascribed to her being. Previously her father made it clear men were at best looking for an equal, not a superior, and she’d be better served by hiding her intellectual prowess. She obviously couldn’t disprove his theory with her previous sample set but Stiles was either a statistical outlier or her data had been corrupted.

“Well if you’d come out we could go to The Clinic and you could see why beer on tap is an important distinction.” Stiles asserted with a small smile. He’d talked about the bar before, there was almost something wistful to his voice when he did and she had never wanted to see the inside of a pub more. But that wasn’t why he mentioned it that day.

“Why don’t you just ask me the question that you've been dying to ask me?” Lydia huffed.

“I'm not...” He started and stopped. “I haven't been dying to ask anything.”

She scoffed. “I can see it on your face.”

Stiles rested his cheek in one hand, his elbow propped on the mantle. “Maybe my face just has, like, a naturally interrogatory expression.” He reset the pieces of the Go board.

“It’s a curse.” Lydia began with a small sigh. And then the whole story came out, her great-great-great-great-great-grandfather’s betrayal of his beloved, her not-quite-cousin Grace, her father’s edicts, the matchmaking, and as she got farther into the story she saw his eyes grow darker and darker.

He swallowed thickly when she finished and turned away from her. She should have known, should have realized he was no different. It was too much to ask of any person, to tolerate this curse with her. But she had never wanted to be wrong so badly before. Even with Jackson. When he turned back around his gaze was oddly bright.

“Lydia can I see you?” There was such sadness in his voice that she knew the right thing to do was to release him from any responsibility. To drive him away like the others. She wanted to be selfish, to keep him coming back here day after day, to keep him as her friend, her first real friend. But he deserved more than that.

When she didn’t answer he turned away from her again. She watched him comb a hand through his hair then rub the back of his neck. She stood carefully, smoothed her skirt, straightened her blouse, and moved to flatten flyaway hairs before she rolled her eyes at herself. She had the face of a barnyard animal, frizzy hair wasn’t going to make or break her.

Her hand shook on the knob of the hidden door behind the bookcase. She steeled herself, taking a deep breath and then pushed it open. He was still turned from her and she crept up behind him to tap him lightly on the shoulder. He spun back to her and her eyes screwed shut; she didn’t want to see disgust in his expressive eyes. She wanted to remember when they were filled with wonder, with amusement, with calculation.

It was when she felt a touch to her cheek that her own fluttered open in confusion. His hand cupped the side of her jaw, thumb passing across her cheekbone. She met his gaze and couldn’t understand what was behind it, though certainly it wasn’t the horror she had seen in others, the revulsion she had seen in Jackson’s, the resignation she saw in her father every day.

He gave her a soft smile. “This is the big curse?” He asked.

Lydia nodded, eyes beginning to burn. Even if it were delayed surely he would be leaving soon. He would be like Jackson, he would laugh at her, he would…

“Oh, Lydia,” He sighed and his hand fell from her face. She found she already missed the warmth of it. “I’m so sorry.”

Her breath hitched. There it was, he was too good to mock or scream, but even he couldn’t bear to look at her, to love her as she was, she had known it would be this way. It still hurt. Whether she had wanted to admit it or not she had begun to hope. Some part of her, not a particularly small part if she were honest, had thought perhaps he wouldn’t care.

Stiles hands settled on her shoulders and it forced her to look at him. “Lydia I swear,” He lifted one hand to brush a stray hair from her forehead. “If I could give you what you wanted,” He sighed again. “I swear that I would.” He leaned down a bit so there eye levels were more evenly matched. “Trust me I would, in a heartbeat.”

“So do it.” She whispered back, angry with herself for sounding so desperate. “I know it’s terrible, I know,” He frowned at her words but she plowed on, “But it’s temporary. It’ll go away if…” She bit back a sob, “You don’t even have to…” She wiped frustratedly at the tears in her eyes.

He surprised to her by pulling her into a tight embrace, one arm around her waist, the other curling under her arm to cup her head. He pressed a kiss to her temple. “He’s wrong.” He cleared his throat. “Your father is an idiot Lydia.” He pulled back but kept his hands on the dip of her side and the back of her head. “There’s nothing…” He closed his eyes, seeming to brace himself. “There’s no reason to keep you here.” He stepped from her. “Promise me you’ll live your life.” He leaned forward quickly and dropped a soft kiss to her cheek. “Get the hell out of here and win a Fields Medal.” He paused at the door to the sitting room. “You deserve…You deserve a real life Lydia.” He stared at her for a long moment. “You deserve a great life.”

With that he left.

When the door clicked shut behind him Lydia crumpled to the floor and started to sob. Her mother found her there some time later and held her as she cried. She replayed the conversation hundreds of times in the intervening hours before she made a choice. He was right about at least one thing. She couldn’t live like this anymore. She couldn’t put up with an endless parade of young men, a bizarre exhibit for the rich and tasteless, hoping eventually one could be conned or persuaded into saddling himself with her for life.

She packed her fiercest outfits; the ones that almost made her forget her face. She put on her favorite coat, long, wool, and pale green. She took a lengthy knit scarf from the hook by the door and wound it once around her neck, aligning the ends, then pulled up the center to cover the bottom half of her face below her eyes. She looked at her reflection in the glass of the back door. Like this no one could tell, like this she was almost normal.

She smiled beneath the scarf.

\---

When he left Lydia Stiles crossed to the van where Jackson and Hale were waiting. He wrenched open the back doors and dragged Whittemore out by the lapels of his jacket, crashing him against the open door of the van. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He tossed him, letting go of his coat. “You’re a sick son of a bitch you know that?”

He rounded on Derek next. “And you.” Stiles shook his head. “I still have no idea what your deal is man but that girl isn’t-” His jaw clenched. “She’s a person. Not a story.” He pointed between them. “And if I find out that either of you try to hurt her again,” He stared Jackson down. “I swear to god I will end you.” He shifted back to Hale. “Consider this my resignation.” He said, pulling the checks they’d been giving him from his back pocket. He dropped them on the floor of the van. “Go near her again and I’ll know.”

\---

Though not particularly familiar with the world at large Lydia was well read, well watched and exceptionally intelligent. So it hadn’t taken much to work her way into a hotel room for the night on her father’s credit card. She walked the streets for hours, staring through store windows, taking in the startling number of people on the streets, the noise, the chaos of it all.

She took a map from the hotel lobby so she could find her way back. At some point, however, she was a bit turned around. Just as she was considering admitting she was truly lost a sign caught her eye. The Clinic was written in block lettering on an asymmetrical wooden sign. Could she? Finding resolve she walked towards the bar and pushed open the heavy old door and stepped inside.

She grabbed a seat at the far corner of the bar top and took in the scene around her. There was a dartboard set up to her right with a few players. A pinball machine shoved to one corner, random memorabilia affixed to the walls, one was only adorned with photographs. She wondered, would he be in one?

The bartender finally finished with a patron at the other end of the bar and walked towards her with a warm smile on his face. He had a sweet countenance when he smiled, something guileless and affable that seemed innate. He threw the towel he held over one shoulder and braced himself on the bar top in front of her. “What can I get you?”

Lydia pursed her lips under her scarf and bit back panic. “Um…what…what would you recommend?” She managed.

“I’ve got a local brew, Wolfsbane, on tap if you like Lagers, or I’ve got-”

“That sounds good.” She cut in with a nod.

He smiled again. “Okay,” He replied with a small laugh. “Wolfsbane it is,” He pulled a glass from behind him and placed it under the tap, filling it with practiced ease. He set the glass in front of her and gestured to it. “Tell me what you think.”

Lydia reached for glass and brought it to her lips, only to find them blocked by the fabric of her scarf. She frowned and tried to shift the edge so she kept her nose covered but allowed her mouth to be free. After a few more seconds of trial and error she put the glass back on the bar and sighed heavily. “Do you have a straw?” She asked.

The bartender regarded her thoughtfully for a moment but reached below the bar and plopped a straw into her glass. “Thanks.” She replied happily.

He opened his mouth as if he intended to say something further but the chime above the door jangled and both their eyes were drawn to the other side of the room. “Hey Scott!” A soft voice called. The girl stomped her boot clad feet on the mat by the door before she stepped up to the bar. She was petite and of Asian descent, her long dark hair loose around her shoulders, a leather jacket protecting her from the elements. She wore a bright smile that grew brighter at the bartender’s approach.

“Hey Kira.” He returned cheerfully.

The girl put a box down next to the register and offered him a pen. “I’m sorry I’m late.” She slid onto the barstool in front of her. “I meant to be here before four o’clock, because I’m always here before four o’clock, but this guy,” She took a sip from the glass of lemonade that the bartender had put in front of her without prompting. “He almost clipped my scooter and then my packages fell all over the road over on Spring, right near the statue of that guy with the, the, you know the one I mean right?” She sipped again. “He didn’t even stop, which I mean, if he was in a rush, I understand, but he could have at least asked if,” She stopped suddenly. “I’m rambling again aren’t I?” Her head fell onto her arms on the edge of the bar. “I’m sorry.” She said with a groan.

The bartender laughed. “I like your rambling.” He seemed to have said it without realizing it because the girl’s headshot up and he tensed. “I mean,” He cleared his throat. “Not that you were rambling, because I wouldn’t say it was rambling, just that if you were rambling, which you weren’t, that I wouldn’t mind because I like you-your rambling. Which you don’t do…” He pulled the towel from his shoulder and wiped at a nonexistent spot while they both avoided each other’s gaze and blushed.

This led the girl to finally noticing Lydia. She gave her a wide smile and waved, which Lydia returned. “Hi,” The girl left her seat and walked down to join the strawberry blonde. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

Lydia put her empty glass down. “I’ve never been here before.”

“I’m Kira.” The girl offered a hand, which Lydia took.

“Lydia.”

“Like the youngest sister in Pride and Prejudice.”

“I hope not.”

Kira blanched. “Oh sorry, not that you’re like that, you know running away from your family and almost dooming your sisters to destitution or something.”

Lydia, feeling oddly warm and content, realizing she was likely a little buzzed, laughed. “Well not entirely maybe.” Kira laughed back. “But as far as namesakes go I like Lydia Taft better,” Lydia hiccupped. “She was the first recorded female voter in American history.”

After that Scott brought her another Lager, and then lemonade, and then a basket of fries and Kira became Lydia’s second friend, Scott became her third. They both seemed to quickly understand that she was hiding something, but also seemed to accept that she would tell them in her own time, if at all.

A week later she moved out of the hotel and into Kira’s spare bedroom, recently vacated by her roommate Malia. Scott’s boss was so impressed by her correction of his bartender’s math one night he offered her a job setting to right the books and then she was employed. Another month passed like that before the story hit the shelves.

She walked out of the backroom of the bar to see Scott and Kira frowning over a tablet with a video of a former news broadcast. She felt her legs turn to jelly as she saw Jackson’s handsome face take over the screen. She couldn’t hear what he was ranting about but the drawing in his hand, a demonic representation of her own affliction, made the content clear. Scott and Kira, noticing her distress, if not the origin, helped her back into the office and into a chair. Promising to return with water and some pretzels they left her with the tablet.

It didn’t take long to search through the top articles to find the source. A story written by a Derek Hale detailed, poorly, the circumstances of the curse, the failed matchmaking ploy of her father, and her seeming disappearance. She started to hyperventilate behind the soft linen scarf she wore that day. She pulled it away from her face and gulped in air. The screen of the tablet timed out and locked, leaving her with a dark reflection of her full visage.

She frowned at the image and tilted her head. Hale had offered a reward for information about Lydia, five grand for an image of the cursed young woman. Stiles voice echoed in her head, ‘your father’s an idiot’. She turned the tablet over in her hand and unlocked it. She left the scarf settled around her neck and opened the camera application. Taking a deep breath she pressed the shutter button. It took a few tries, but she found one she liked and she sent it to the office printer. She was gone before Scott and Kira returned.

\---

By the following Monday Lydia’s face was everywhere. If she was hiding behind her scarf before to avoid people’s reactions she was now also doing it to avoid recognition. The media was clamoring for more information about the reclusive Lydia Martin. Derek Hale’s exclusive follow-up was syndicated in every major publication and her image was on every news channel at least twice a day.

After two weeks of the circus she finally sat Kira and Scott down in the apartment and stood in front of them, unwinding the scarf. There was a lot of pausing, a lot of questions, but the quiet understanding both offered made her feel more cared for than she ever had save those forty-five seconds Stiles had held her months prior.

After that she only wore scarves around her neck, and only when it was cold enough to warrant it. She ignored the press when they finally found her and only returned her mother’s phone calls. She was happy, truly happy, for the first time in a long time. That was until she ran into him…the last person on earth she wanted to see…literally.

\---

She didn’t know that his father’s company had experienced shareholder turmoil over his vehement condemnation of her. She didn’t know that she was considered a media darling and he had inadvertently cast himself as the villain. She didn’t know that his father had ordered him to fix it or face the cutting of the purse strings. She didn’t know that her father had given him the address of the bar where she worked.

What she did know is that he apologized; he seemed so sincere, so distraught that he had reacted so poorly to her…affliction. She didn’t believe him, didn’t take him seriously at first. The searing hurt was still so palpable to her, his laughter still so clear in her mind.

But he came back, and then he came back again. And she started to remember the other things about Jackson Whittemore. She remembered how sweet he could be, how charming and confident, how assured and easy. A voice, _his_ voice told her to be careful, but she dismissed it, because he wouldn’t lower himself to break the curse either, so how much could his opinion really matter? It didn’t. It couldn’t. It wouldn’t.

And Jackson continued to come back, he brought gifts, he arranged to take her to dinner at fabulous places, to the opera, to the theatre. And if part of her, a treacherous unimportant part, thought she would rather see a baseball game with different company it too was ignored.

Scott and Kira told her it was okay to forgive Jackson if she was ready, that people made mistakes, that people grew and changed. Of course none of that mattered when six weeks into his seduction he offered her the one thing no one else ever had. He offered to break the curse. She could be free. She could finally have her face, her true face, not the consequence of her ancestor’s awful disloyalty, but the face she had been meant to have all along.

She took a week to make her decision, but eventually she said yes… She didn’t love Jackson, but that hardly mattered. She knew now whom she had loved, and he wouldn’t have her, so why shouldn’t she at least have this? He had said it after all hadn’t she? She deserved a real life. And she would have one. As Mrs. Lydia Whittemore.

\---

The chime above the door had been replaced in the last few years. It rang differently when he crossed under it and somehow that brought the reality of the passage of time to the forefront of his mind. Maybe this was a mistake…Maybe he should-

“Stiles.” Scott breathed, like he couldn’t quite believe his own eyes. Stiles tensed beneath the door as Scott tipped up the hinge on the side of the bar and met him by the entrance. He braced himself for the swing, feeling he deserved that much if nothing else.

“I missed you so much, man.” Scott said as he pulled him into a tight embrace. Stiles let out a shuddering breath. Scott was supposed to be angry, to be livid and violent, he was not supposed to be hugging him.

Stiles pulled back. “Why…” He cleared his throat. “Why aren’t you pissed right now?”

Scott looked at him with such blatant sympathy it hurt. “Why would I be mad at you?” His head tilted. “I mean, I guess I’m a little hurt you just left us all without telling us,” He frowned. “It has been two years man.”

“I-” Stiles moved with him to side of the bar. “Allison died and-”

“Dude.” Scott stopped him. “You left because of the accident?”

“After what I-“

“No.” Scott’s voice was firm. “You know for second smartest person I’ve ever met you’re pretty dense dude.” Scott sighed. “What happened with Ally was an accident.” When Stiles opened his mouth to protest Scott waved him off. “No man, yes you were driving, and yeah if like a thousand other things were different she might be alive, but you weren’t the drunk driver on the road.” He tapped Stiles’s chest. “You weren’t the one that blew through the red light. You weren’t the one that fled the scene.” He clasped Stiles’s shoulder. “You were the one that dragged her and Isaac from the car. You were the one that gave her CPR until the paramedics got there.”

“But I wasn’t sober.” Stiles insisted. “Not entirely.” He hung his head, staring at his hands. “Scott, I-” His voice broke. “No matter what else I did, I still got behind the wheel when I shouldn’t have, and Allison died.” He shook his head. “Nothing else matters.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Stiles gave a watery laugh. “It still matters.”

Scott took a deep breath. “Okay.” He dropped his hand. “It can matter, I mean I don’t think anything you, or any of us, did could have changed what happened that night but…either way I forgive you. I never didn’t forgive you.” He took a step back and sat on the barstool behind him. “And Isaac and Chris agreed with me by the way.” Stiles shot him an incredulous look. “Alright, maybe not at first, but once the shock wore off,” He shrugged. “They understood. But you were gone by then so…” An uncomfortable silence followed.

Stiles took the seat next to Scott and rested his forearms on the bar. “So,” He looked to Scott. “We’re-we’re good?” Scott nodded and Stiles mimicked the gesture, tapping out a rhythm on the bar absently. He suddenly stilled and turned to Scott. “Wait, did you say second smartest?”

\---

Stiles forgot about Scott’s blinding optimism. And he always liked Kira, really, she was cute and sweet and loyal and kind. She was a lot like Scott. However the two of them kind of needed the occasional cynic to balance out their disconcertingly unwavering positivity. He knew Jackson Whittemore was not to be trusted. He didn’t care how he had acted in recent weeks, he didn’t care what impression he made on the two sunshine police. He was a snake.

He went to Hale first, he had to know if the reporter was in on whatever the scheme was too. He tossed the paper with the engagement announcement onto Derek’s desk by way of a reintroduction.

“Did you have something to do with this?” He demanded.

Hale sighed and shoved the paper away from him. “No.” He opened a lower desk drawer and pulled out a glass and a bottle of Scotch. “I think it’s pretty clear at this point that everything that…” He gestured. “Bastard said was a lie.” He poured himself a hefty portion. “For my part in it,” He met Stiles’s gaze. “Whatever that was I am sorry.” He took a pull from the glass. “None of this is what I thought it would be.”

Stiles’s jaw twitched but he nodded and he turned to leave. “Why didn’t you just do it?”

Stiles stopped. “What?”

“You could have broken the curse,” Derek continued. “I never understood.” He swirled the contents of his glass. “Clearly you care about her.” He leaned back in his desk chair. “Why didn’t you just break the curse?”

Stiles swallowed and reached for the door. “You know for an investigative journalist you’re not exactly observant.” He tossed over his shoulder as he left.

\---

Stiles cornered Jackson in the absurdly swanky bathroom of an opera house where the latter had taken Lydia, and their respective parents, for the evening. “I told you if you hurt her again I would end you.” Stiles said from where he leaned against the opposite wall while Jackson washed his hands. They met each other’s stare in the mirror and Whittemore turned with a scowl.

“Yeah, and what are you going to do about it?” Jackson demanded. “Seems like an empty threat.”

Stiles pushed off of the wall, grabbed Jackson’s jacket with one hand and pressed his forearm against his throat with the other as he backed him back against the tiled wall, in the space of a second. “Try me, Whittemore.” He growled. Jackson had the sense to look mildly disturbed. “I’ll always be there, I will never go away, the second,” He snapped a finger next to Jackson’s ear. “The second you cross the line, I’ll be there.” He shoved back, letting Jackson’s head crack a little against the tile. “If you harm one perfect strawberry blonde hair on her head you’ll have to be mailed back to your parents in pieces.”

“You’re one to talk.” Jackson bit back as he rubbed at his throat.

Stiles tensed. “Don’t make me come back Whittemore.” He opened the bathroom door and left.

\---

Derek couldn’t let go of the kid’s last comment. It stayed with him for the rest of the night as he pored over the articles he had written before and after Lydia’s breakout. Just as he had been about to admit defeat his office phone had rung. A contact at the local precinct had a story for him, he stowed his bottle of Scotch and the glass.

When he arrived Parrish was stationed at the booking desk. “What have you got for me?” Derek asked as he reached him.

Parrish jutted a thumb over his shoulder to the holding cells. “Guy in the drunk tank.” The deputy leaned forward a little. “Theo Raeken.” Derek flinched and frowned. “We got an anonymous tip linking him to a two-year old hit and run. Sheriff is waiting for him to sober up for him to sign his full confession. He’ll be charged with vehicular manslaughter, leaving the scene, it’ll be all over tomorrow.”

Derek strode over to the holding cell as soon as Parrish finished. There was no way that kid had…

 

The kid in the cell was not Theo Raeken.

 

“This isn’t Theo Raeken.” He called to Parrish.

The deputy raised an eyebrow. “Yeah it is,” He gave Derek a confused look. “He’s got a pretty prolific record.” Parrish stood and joined Derek by the cells where they watched the drunk accused sleep. “The tipster gave us everything, even without the confession he’s done. We’ve got matching paint, statements from the auto body shop, a tapped admission.”

Derek shook his head. “So you’re telling me,” He pointed to the unconscious pretty boy, “That is Theo Raeken.”

Parrish took on a bemused expression. “Yes.” He flipped open the folder he held. “Theodore Raeken, parents own the plant over in Canaan, born May 12th 19-”

Derek lifted a hand from his bicep to signal for him to stop. “Thanks for the lead Parrish.”

“Well, better to give it to you,” Parrish said with a shrug, “And have at least one place print actual facts.”

Derek tried to replay every interaction he had with the guy he had known as Theo Raeken, starting with that night at the club. He had asked the bouncer if he knew Raeken and he pointed right at-

He had pointed at the pretty-boy, slumped over as his friend helped him onto a barstool. Had they ever even asked? Ever even questioned? He slammed a hand on the cell door, rattling it loudly. “Hey!” He shouted. He smacked the door again. “Hey! Kid! Wake up!” Inside the cell the real Theo Raeken groaned. “Wake up!”

The kid shifted, groaned again and blinked blearily. “What do you want?” He rasped.

“The other kid you hang out with, scrawny, glasses, sarcastic.” Derek paused.

“Stiles?” Theo trained his unfocused gaze on Derek. “What about him?”

“His name is Stiles?”

Theo tried to sit up but failed and rolled onto his side. “No,” He coughed. “His last name is Stilinski. Everybody just calls him Stiles.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “Why?” He frowned at Derek. “What’s going on?”

“Go back to sleep.” Derek returned coldly. He crossed the room to Parrish’s desk. “I need a favor.” He said as soon as the deputy looked up.

\---

The dress was beautiful. Her father had spared no expense, neither had Jackson’s. The whole event would be gorgeous and lavish. Lydia ran her shaking hands along the bodice of the dress and clenched them in the skirt. This was what she wanted. This was what her family wanted. She would finally be normal; she would finally have everything she was supposed to have…if not for the folly of her great-great-great... She sighed, her eyes catching on the engagement ring she wore.

It too was beautiful, large and flashy and not at all to her liking It lacked elegance, it lacked taste. She pursed her lips as she twirled the ring around her finger. It didn’t quite fit either.

A sharp intake of breath behind her led to her meeting her mother’s gaze in the mirror. “Oh sweetheart.” She whispered. “You look incredible.”

Lydia played with her veil. “You think so?”

Natalie nodded. “Yes honey.” She sat next her daughter at the vanity. “You look…” Her smile quavered.

Lydia nodded. Her mother couldn’t say beautiful, she couldn’t even say pretty or cute. Because she wasn’t, she couldn’t be, not like this not with… _There’s nothing_ … _He’s wrong_ … _You deserve…_

\---

“She deserves to know why he left.” Derek growled at Lydia’s father.

Richard Martin pushed harder on the door. “She’s getting married today. It hardly matters.”

Derek slid the folder containing everything he’d learned in the last few weeks between the gap that still remained. “At least show her this-”

“I’ll do nothing-” Richard stopped as the folder fell on the other side of the door. He turned to grab it but a woman behind him, the matchmaker Ms. Morrell, snatched it before he could.

“I’ll take care of it Mr. Martin.” She said, but she was looking directly at Derek when she did. He nodded and removed the foot he had wedged against the door jam to keep it propped open.

He couldn’t fix exactly everything he’d done, but hopefully he could fix this one thing.

\---

“Mom?” Lydia turned on the bench to face her mother. “What if…” She found herself staring at her hands. “What if it doesn’t work?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if,” Lydia settled herself and met her mother’s concerned gaze. “What if it I didn’t, if it didn’t work, and I was…” She gestured to her face. “I was always like this…”

Her mother laid a hand on her cheek and gave her a soft smile. “You would be my brilliant, amazing daughter.” She kissed Lydia’s forehead. “Whom I love with all my heart.”

Lydia nodded slowly. They both jumped when there was a knock at the door. Lydia’s father gave them a sharp grin. “Time to go baby.” He offered her his hand. Lydia cast one last look to her mother as she followed her father down the stairs.

Every step seemed to scream of the wrongness of what she was doing. She felt her lungs constricting as the got closer and closer to the patio doors. This wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t want to marry him. She didn’t want to marry anyone. She wanted… _Get the hell out of here and win a Fields Medal_ … She looked to her father, his smug, serene expression. She didn’t want this, any of this, she didn’t care anymore, she realized suddenly.

She was almost hyperventilating as the realization washed over her. She didn’t need to break the curse to win a Fields Medal. She didn’t need to break the curse to have friends. She didn’t need to break the curse to start her life. Her life had begun nine months ago when Stiles had walked into her sitting room. She stopped short, her father jolting next to her as she did.

“I can’t do this.” She whispered, turning to her dad. “I don’t want to do this.”

“What?” He asked sharply. “Lydia. What are you talking about?” He grasped the arm she had twined around his tightly. “We’re finally going to be free of-”

“No!” Lydia wrenched her arm from his grip and stepped back. “No, Daddy.” She shook her head. “I already was free. Am free.” She asserted. “I was happy, I was…” She took another step away from him. “This isn’t what I want.” She pointed to him. “This is what you want. This has always been about what you want.” She brought a hand to her face. “You’re the one that hated this face, my face.”

She took another step away. “You’re the one that put me in a cage.” She bunched her hands in the skirt of her dress. “Not anymore.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “I am enough Daddy.” She took a deep steadying breath. “I was always enough.” Lydia swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “You’re the one who didn’t understand. You’re the only one that should be ashamed.” With that she turned on the ball of her foot and ran.

Habit lead her up the stairs to her bedroom, she locked the door behind herself and slid against it sobbing heavily. She put her arms across her knees and buried her face in her lap as she cried. She cried for the years her father had stolen from her, for the love and acceptance he had denied her, which she had denied herself. She cried for girl she had been, the one that had been so thoroughly convinced she could never be good enough with the face with which she had been born.

She let the loss seep from her with every tear, let the anger, the betrayal, the sadness wash over her and out. At some point her father pounded on the door, but she ignored him. She heard her mother’s soft tones next, but ignored those too. Eventually she lifted her head and wiped under each eye.

“Enough.” She whispered. “I am enough. I was always enough.” She steadied herself. “And that’s enough of that.” She pushed herself to her feet and then stumbled. The world pitched itself as she tried to right herself and she fell harshly on the wood floor as the world went black.

\---

As she started to wake up she became aware of a cool hand on her forehead and her mother’s delicate voice. “Hey, sweetheart.” Natalie greeted her when she opened her eyes.

“Mom?” She rasped. “What…” Lydia looked around the hospital room where she was clearly residing. “What happened?”

“One of your own kind.” Her mother responded. “We all thought…” She frowned. “Well your father had made it seem like…”

“Mom, what’s going on?”

Natalie reached for something on a side table and handed it to Lydia. It was a small hand mirror. Lydia shifted into a sitting position and brought the mirror up to her face and gasped. Her free hand flew to her nose. Her nose. It was her nose. Not that of a swine, nor her ancestor, but her nose. Lydia Martin’s nose. Her fingers fumbled and fiddled with her hair, pushing it back so she could see her ears. It was all gone. As if it had never happened.

“How?” She asked her mother, letting the mirror fall to the mattress.

“I’m not a blueblood like your father.” Natalie started softly. “But you are.” She brushed some of Lydia’s hair over one shoulder. “One of your own had to accept you, that’s what the curse actually said.” She smiled. “The whole family always assumed marriage. But you did it yourself.” She squeezed one of Lydia’s hands. “You broke the curse yourself.”

\---

It took weeks for Lydia to get used to the face in the mirror as her own. Kira welcomed her back with open arms. She and Scott were finally dating. Deaton let her go back to doing the books at The Clinic and she started looking for graduate programs in theoretical mathematics.

A couple of months after the almost wedding Lydia got a package at the bar. She waited until she was seated at the desk in the office to open it. A note was attached to the outside of a manila folder. ‘I thought you should know the truth – MM’ Lydia opened the file and frowned.

Stamped across the top was ‘M. Stilinski’ with a photo of Stiles underneath.

\---

“Are you sure he’s going to be here Kira?” Lydia asked as they weaved their way through the crowd towards the doors.

“Scott said he’s renting the apartment above the club from Isaac while he studies for the bar.” Kira flashed her a reassuring smile. “He’ll be here.”

Lydia nodded and tried to push away her anxiety. Another group of Lydia trick-or-treaters pushed past them and Kira gave Lydia an amused eye roll. Lydia was the ‘it’ costume that Halloween. They’d seen over two dozen in the walk over to Isaac’s club that night. “What are you supposed to be anyway?” Lydia asked Kira as she fiddled with her mask.

Kira pointed to the ears atop her head. “I’m a fox.” She put her hands on her hips and flicked her tails. “A kitsune, actually.”

Lydia mouthed an ‘Oh’ as they reached the front of the line. Boyd, the bouncer recognized them immediately. “Hey guys,” He pushed the door opened. “Nice kitsune costume Kira.” The brunette shot Lydia a mildly triumphant look.

Kira took Lydia’s hand and dragged her up the stairs, stopping in front of Stiles apartment door. “Are you ready?” She asked.

“I-I’m not sure I mean-”

Kira rapped on the door with quick, insistent, knocks. “Too late.” She squeaked.

The door creaked opened and Lydia thought her heart was going to stop altogether. Stiles stood there in a dark gray button down over a t-shirt. “Can I…help you?” He asked, eyes sweeping over the pair with the same rapidity they always had.

Kira nudged Lydia, who cleared her throat but then shot a panicked look at her friend. Kira fixed a bright smile on her face and turned back to Stiles. “Boyd said she could use your bathroom.” She gave Lydia a little push. “She has to pee.” Stiles opened the door wide enough to accommodate another person.

“Okay….” He dragged it out. “Tell Boyd I said thanks for offering up my apartment to patrons.” He sighed and stepped away from the door. “Super helpful.” Lydia walked forward but stopped when she realized Kira wasn’t following her.

“Well I’m going to go…” Kira shrugged. “Tell Boyd you said thanks.” She smiled again. “Or something.” She waved. “Bye.”

Stiles frowned at the brunette and looked to Lydia, perhaps for explanation, but she’d lost most of her nerve and instead walked towards the room she assumed to be the bathroom. She listened to him close his apartment door as she leaned against the bathroom’s and took a few steadying breaths.

She steeled herself, “It, it seems like a fun party.” She called out as she moved to the sink and washed her hands. “Why aren’t you, you know, partying?” She rolled her eyes at herself. She sounded ridiculous.

“I’ve got to study.” Stiles’s monotonous reply came to her through the wall. Lydia opened the door and walked back into the living room.

“Oh,” She cleared her throat. “What are you studying for?”

He looked up from the book in his hand to regard her with narrowed eyes. “The bar…”

“So you want to be a lawyer.”

“Well if I don’t and I’m taking the bar it’d certainly be an odd way to spend my time.” He sighed. “I’m sorry.” He snapped his book shut and dropped it on his couch. “I’m just a little…” He frowned as he moved his gaze back to her. “Could you-could you take off the mask?” He asked.

Lydia tensed and touched the plastic duplication of her previous countenance. Did he know? Had he already guessed? “What?” She choked.

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He repeated stepping back to lean against his kitchen table. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I just keep…” He sighed again. “I’ve been running into… someone, someone I used to know,” He gestured vaguely. “All day and I just…” He put up a hand in a conciliatory motion. “I’m sorry.” He pitched forward again and picked the book he had held back up.

Lydia took a step towards him. “This someone,” She paused. “She meant a lot to you?”

Stiles looked up to her again and the rawness of his gaze nearly broke her. “Yes.” He rasped. He cleared his throat and turned back to the text. “She did.”

“What, um, what happened?” Lydia pressed her lips together as she reached the side of his couch. She braced a hand on the arm and traced the pattern of the fabric.

“I,” Stiles’s jaw twitched. “I couldn’t give her what she wanted.”

Lydia stopped and raised her eyes to his again. “What did she want?” She asked softly.

Stiles’s breathing had become shallower and his grip tightened on his book. “To be free.” He whispered.

Lydia’s concentration broke as she took in the uniform and equipment behind him. She gasped. “You lied!” She strode past him to lacrosse stick pointing accusingly. “I guessed lacrosse and you-”

Stiles caught her arm and spun her around to face him. His free hand buried itself in her hair and the other slipped to encircle her waist as he pulled her into a searing kiss. Every resolution of higher thought fled Lydia’s mind as his lips met hers. There was only the feel of him pressed against her, the sharp angle of their height difference, the intensity of emotion he poured into their embrace, every part of her short-circuited in desperation and adoration.

He pulled away too quickly, his forehead resting against hers as her considerable intellect tried to catch up. “Lydia, wait, I,” His hand dragged across her back to her hip as he pushed away. “I’m sorry.” His eyes searched hers. “I can’t break the curse, I can’t…” He moved to take a full step away from her but she held tightly onto him.

“It’s okay.” Lydia raised her shaking left hand to her mask and pulled it over her head. “As it turned out, I could.” She smiled. Stiles had taken a step back and he gasped. “It’s me Stiles.” She assured him as she took a step towards him. “It’s me.”

Stiles raised a hand to her cheek, cupping her jaw carefully. “I don’t know…” He whispered as he started to lean forward. “I was kind of partial to-” Lydia silenced him by shifting up onto her toes and kissing him soundly.

They fell into a rhythm quickly, so well matched it was almost like they’d done that before, as if they had practiced the art at length together, almost like…like…

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks again to everyone who made this possible and totally understood when i accidentally gave myself pneumonia and started to run out of time, lol. reviews are digital love (and that's the best kind). let me know below or on tumblr what au's no one ever asked for/might want you'd like to see...


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